There Shakespeare, On Whose Forehead Climb The

Sleep On, Baby, On The Floor, Tired Of All The Playing, Sleep With Smile The Sweeter For That You Dropped Away In! On Your Curls' Full Roundness Stand Golden Lights Serenely-- One Cheek, Pushed Out By The Hand, Folds The Dimple Inly.

Let Us Be Content To Work To Do The Things We Can, And Not Presume To Fret Because It's Little.

That Headlong Ivy! Not A Leaf Will Grow But Thinking Of A Wreath, . . . I Like Such Ivy; Bold To Leap A Height 'twas Strong To Climb! As Good To Grow On Graves As Twist About A Thyrsus; Pretty Too (and That's Not Ill) When Twisted Round A Comb.

Why, What Is To Live? Not To Eat And Drink And Breathe,—but To Feel The Life In You Down All The Fibres Of Being, Passionately And Joyfully.

We All Have Known Good Critics, Who Have Stamped Out Poet's Hopes; Good Statesmen, Who Pulled Ruin On The State; Good Patriots, Who, For A Theory, Risked A Cause; Good Kings, Who Disemboweled For A Tax; Good Popes, Who Brought All Good To Jeopardy; Good Christians, Who Sat Still In Easy-chairs; And Damned The General World For Standing Up. Now, May The Good God Pardon All Good Men!